


Bullets (Give Me All You've Got)

by LilLayneeLoo



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Clark Kent Needs a Hug, Domestic Batfamily (DCU), From Bruce, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Gotham General Hospital, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Married Couple, Not super Graphic, Protective Clark Kent, Sparring, Surgery, Wayne Manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27381604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilLayneeLoo/pseuds/LilLayneeLoo
Summary: Batman is shot during a JLA mission.Or, Clark being anxious about Bruce going back out into the field.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent & Alfred Pennyworth, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Clark Kent & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 227





	Bullets (Give Me All You've Got)

There were three bullets.

Despite his excessive strength and high speed, Clark did not manage to stop a single one of them.

The first entered several inches above his navel, the sound of cracking bone indicating it made contact with the base of his sternum. 

The second pierced his left shoulder, narrowly missing a major artery, at least according to Clark's rapid assessment of muscle tissue.

The third and final shot hit his right hip, grazing the socket and lodging deep into the iliacus muscle.

Three bullet holes. No exit wounds.

Clark lunged forward as Batman collapsed, catching the dead weight of his partner in his arms.

He stared in horror as crimson blood spilled not only from the wounds, but through his lips as well, cascading almost delicately over his ashen skin.

His eyes, pupils blown wide and clouded behind the cowl, met Clark's for a moment before losing focus entirely. 

Harsh, laboured gasps wracked the man's chest, his body now limp in Clark's arms. 

"No, no, no, Bruce, no," Clark muttered desperately. "Fuck… Bruce, baby, hold on for me, okay? Bruce, stay with me."

Before he could think, the cowl was pulled away from Bruce's face, the resulting release of gas easily dissipating in Clark's alien lungs. The blood from his mouth trickled down to his ear now, Clark instinctively wiping it away with trembling hands.

“S’okay, Bruce, baby,” he was saying. “Bruce you’re gonna be okay, right? You just...I’ve got you now.” 

Clark was vaguely aware of three figures behind him, but ignored them.

The older man’s chest heaved, a choking-cough bursting violently from his chest, accompanied by a fresh stream of ruby blood. It spattered Clark’s face, dripping down to the symbol over his chest. 

Bruce groaned, as if trying to talk, but Clark shushed him immediately.

"No, baby, please," Clark was gasping himself, now, the world spiraling around him. Bruce raised his right hand and pressed it to Clark’s cheek, as if to ground him. "You gotta… just...don't you dare leave me, you hear me, Bruce? I’m going to help you...just...fuck, you can’t leave me."

He was frantic now, tearing at pieces of the suit until nothing but Bruce remained, muttering to himself the entire time. He left it discarded on the cold concrete. 

Bruce was pulled up into Clark's arms less than moments later, as he shot up into the air in the direction of the nearest hospital.

"Bruce as in, Bruce Wayne?" A young male voice asked on the ground below.

" _ Baby? _ " Asked a slightly older woman. 

"Now is not the time,," a third stepped in. His voice was slow and steady. "First we must allow Superman to ensure that Batman does not die."

\-----

“Lay off of him, Dickiebird,” Jason said, shuffling back into the room. Dick was pacing around the small waiting area, Tim and Damian somehow asleep on the uncomfortable chairs. Alfred had one eye on an old edition of The Gotham Gazette, the other supervising the situation. Jason slumped down next to him.

At Jason’s appearance, Dick sat down as well, his hand running loosely through his hair, and his eyes a puffy red mess. He countered his brother immediately.

“He has superspeed, Jay, and is invulnerable to bullets. He should have-”

“Seriously, can it man,” Jason shot back, interrupting him with a worried glance across the room. “Clark’s surely beating himself up enough without you adding onto it, and I bet any money Bruce had told him strictly  _ not _ to abandon his post, whether he was being shot at or not. It’s not his fault.”

Dick continued to fume, but now in silence, glaring back and forth between Jason and Clark.

“Besides,” Jay said, his voice all at once going quiet and vicious. “You’ve had your fair share of not showing up when someone’s about to die.”

Dick’s brow creased, and a wave of remorse and sadness crashed over his face. He stood slowly, and walked out of the room, leaving Clark and Jason alone with Alfred and the sleeping Robins. 

“That was a little harsh, don’t you think, Master Jason?” Alfred cautioned. Jason scoffed.

“I’ve been the brunt of their anger too many times to count,” he said, addressing the butler, but solemnly looking at Clark. “Hood’s either too fast or not fast enough, too cautious or not cautious enough...there’s never a happy medium. I’ll bet it’s even worse for him, being Superman and all.”

Clark was staring at the floor. Even when Dick had been yelling at him, he hadn’t really absorbed much of it. His head was resting on his clasped fists, his mind focused on one thing only.

The soft  _ thud thud _ of a struggling heart in OR-6.

“It’s not Dick’s fault that I died when I did,” Jay continued. “Or Bruce’s, and they know that. Sometimes he just needs a reminder that Nightwing isn’t perfect.”

Alfred hummed, a sound that did not clearly communicate either approval or disapproval. They sat in silence for a few more minutes, until Damian roused. 

“Todd,” he said, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “Pennyworth. Any update on father’s condition?”

Both of the addressed men shook their heads, so Damian stretched and rose to his feet. 

“What’s the time?”

Clark knew without looking. It had been moving so slowly since the gun had fired that he had been able to keep track.

“2:30,” he said, monotonously. He looked up only briefly enough to see Damian staring at him. 

“Pennyworth,” he continued. “I’m going to procure some refreshments. Where is the cafeteria?”

“I’m afraid it would be closed at this hour, Master Damian. There are only vending machines.”

Damian sighed.

“I see. Well, the smallest bill I have is a fifty,” he said.

“I’ve got a few fives and ones,” Clark said again. His focus wavered only slightly from Bruce’s heartbeat as he reached into his pocket. Superman had only been able to drop Bruce off at the door. Clark Kent, however, could remain in the waiting room and nobody would bat an eyelash. He had changed and washed in an alley, rushing in as the billionaire’s husband less than 5 minutes after Bruce was admitted.

Damian politely accepted the bills, meeting Clark’s eye as he did. 

“Thank you, Kent,” he said abruptly, stepping toward the double doors. He turned before he left, looking back. “I just want you to know that Grayson is wrong; this is not your fault.”

Before Clark could say a word, Damian turned on his heel, the doors swinging shut behind him.

“Holy shit,” Jason said, immediately. “If Little D doesn’t blame you, I don’t know why anyone else would.”

Clark nodded slightly, returning to his position. 

_ Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. _

Bruce’s heartbeat not only reassured Clark that he was still alive, but also provided him with an audible distraction from everything else going on in the hospital. 

Incessant beeping, patient’s buzzers, crying babies, chatting nurses and doctors. Clicking of keyboards and the whirring of adjustable cots. Squeaky wheels on vitals carts being pushed up and down the halls. Even in the middle of the night, the building was a flurry of activity that Clark wanted nothing more than to shut out. It was overwhelming.

_ Thud..thud. Thud..thud. Thud..thud. _

He couldn’t tell if Bruce’s heartbeat was actually dangerously slow, or if it was just his fucked up perception of time and space. Everything felt fuzzy to Clark, like he couldn’t get it into focus.

“Master Clark?” Alfred pulled him from his thoughts, knelt down in front of him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Clark wondered how long he had been there. “If you would like to leave for a while, go home and rest, none of us would think any less of you. You were in battle before...before this. You must be exhausted.”

“I can’t leave Alfred,” Clark said, harshly. He winced. “Sorry. I appreciate the concern, but I’m honestly okay. I wouldn’t be able to rest at home anyway.”

“Not to worry,” Alfred nodded, returning to his seat. "We are all under quite a bit of stress at the moment.”

The double doors swung open and Dick and Damian came in. Damian distributed the bottled water he had retrieved from the machine, as well as a few small packages of chips and nuts. Clark waved him off initially, but Damian thrust it into his lap, insisting that “Father wouldn’t forgive us if he knew you went without sustenance.”

Tim woke up as Damian walked past, adjusting himself in his seat and gulping down some water. He looked exhausted, and Clark was hit with a rush of guilt again. He pulled his senses back to the OR.

_ Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. _

Bruce’s heart wasn’t too slow, then. It sounded okay, for someone under the knife.

Well, as far as Clark’s incredibly limited knowledge of surgical procedure went.

Clark shifted as Dick lowered himself into the chair next to him, looking up at the young man’s face. His legs were trembling slightly, filled with nervous energy. He looked sad, but most of all, he looked  _ sorry _ .

Dick opened his mouth, but Clark interrupted him.

“I know, Dick,” he said. “It’s okay.”

He placed a hand on Dick’s knee. Dick closed his mouth, and his eyes welled with tears.

“You’re a good person, Clark,” he said, quietly. “Bruce is lucky to have you in his life.”

Clark swallowed thickly, tears welling in his own eyes.

“I love him, Dick,” Clark said, softly. “I’d never let anything happen to him if I could help it...but you know him.”

Dick chuckled and wiped at his eyes.

“A stubborn asshole?” Dick cried, chuckling gently.

Clark half-sobbed, half-laughed, a few stray tears streaming down his cheeks. He squeezed Dick’s knee, balling his other hand into a fist.

“Sometimes,” he said. His voice was cracking from the tears. “But he’s  _ our _ stubborn asshole.”

From across the room, Jason raised his half empty water bottle, as if making a toast, tears also forming in his and Alfred’s eyes.

“To our stubborn asshole.”

“Here, here,” Alfred said.

And they drank.

\-----

It was 4 in the morning when a doctor finally walked through the door.

Clark stood immediately to his feet, approaching the doctor while Jay quietly roused the rest of the family, who had long fallen asleep. Alfred and Dick were both by Clark’s side impressively fast for having been sleeping, while Tim and Damian rubbed their eyes sluggishly once again.

“My name is Doctor Harris, I’m the surgeon who performed Mr. Wayne’s procedure. I’m here to inform you that the surgery was successful,” the surgeon said. Dick breathed a sigh of relief and hugged Alfred, but Clark couldn’t relax yet. He had to hear the doctor out. “There were three wounds, as you all know. None of the bullets had exited, so we were forced to retrieve all three. As a result, he has three fairly long incisions, and some serious tissue damage. Fortunately, he should recover fully.”

Clark nodded slowly. “Any other damage we should know about?”

“His sternum…it was lucky it did not shatter, but rather fractured quite deeply, and two of his ribs cracked neatly in two. They have been plated and screwed, and again, miraculously, we aren’t looking at any long term damage. Four or five weeks of healing time. No additional incisions were required for that either; we were able to repair the bone while retrieving the bullet.”

Clark nodded again. He just had one more question.

“The bullet in his shoulder, if I’m not mistaken, was incredibly close to his axillary artery. Did it sever?”

Dr. Harris raised his eyebrows at Clark, confused by his extensive knowledge of not only the circulatory system, but also of Bruce’s injuries.

“No, fortunately not,” he responded. “But you are correct, it was damn close. Mr. Wayne is extraordinarily lucky that he was not more severely injured. Might I ask how he was shot?”

Clark looked at Alfred awkwardly, but Dick stepped in.

“Bruce is...well, let’s just say he’s got some sort of saviour complex. He stepped in the middle of a fight between the Justice League and some guys dressed up as clowns. They had cleared all of the civilians away, except Bruce went back and...well... that’s why it was Superman who brought him in. The nurse downstairs told us that he was responsible for saving him, so for that we’re grateful.”

Dick sighed and put his head in his hands. Clark took the compliment while marveling silently at Dick’s acting abilities. They were good, but he still felt his heart racing at the possibility that the doctor might not buy it.

He had stripped Bruce down in front of the JLA; that was enough exposure for one day. Bruce would probably already have his head for that, he didn’t need some doctor knowing Batman’s identity too.

“I don’t know what the hell he thinks he can do,” Dick continued with a sigh, breaking Clark from his trance. “But, didn’t you see all of his scars? Not only does he somehow think he can play hero for a day every once in a while, but he’s also an avid thrill seeker. Cliff diving, free soloing, paragliding...name an extreme sport and Bruce Wayne has probably done it. Or at least tried.” 

Clark swallowed as Dr. Harris frowned back at Dick, but was relieved when he nodded. He did not press the situation further, but rather turned his attention to Clark.

“Mr. Kent, I’m assuming?” he asked. “You are listed as Mr. Wayne’s medical PoA, and therefore you are, unfortunately, the only one who is allowed to step in and visit him. He will be recovering in a private suite as per your request, Room 434, and though he likely won’t wake for another half hour or so, you are more than welcome to go await his arrival. Nurses are attending to the final steps of his surgery, and will be bringing him along shortly.”

“Thank you,” Clark said, extending a hand and shaking the doctor’s firmly. Harris nodded politely to the others, then swiftly left the waiting room. Clark exhaled, closing his eyes and trying to relax, to no avail. He looked over at the boys, worried they would be upset that it was  _ him _ who got to visit. He was wrong.

“Go and see him, Master Clark,” Alfred smiled gently, Dick nodding beside him. “He need not wake up alone.”

\-----

A nurse entered mere minutes after Clark arrived in the room, pushing a mobile cot. Clark tried to limit his reaction to Bruce’s battered form, mindful of his own fragility and afraid he might unknowingly reveal too much if he allowed himself an outburst. 

There was a beeping noise, followed closely by the arrival of two other nurses. Together, the three of them managed to transfer Bruce from the cot to the stationary bed. Two of them left, while the original nurse explained Bruce’s next steps.

“As you can see,” she said. “His breathing tube is still in; our anaesthesiologist was called downstairs to assist with an emergency intubation. She should only be a few minutes, but until she arrives, it will have to stay in his throat.”

Clark nodded as he stared at Bruce, the large plastic mouthpiece obscuring nearly half of his face. He thanked her quietly, and she left.

Clark approached Bruce’s bedside cautiously, staring down at his husband. He had been changed out of his thermal wear and into a hospital gown, the stiff fabric barely broad enough to wrap around his muscular shoulders. A thin sheet had been draped over him, but it only reached the middle of his torso; Clark could still see the thick fabric of gauze bandages protruding through the gown, stained a very faint orange that indicated residual blood.

He felt weak, as he always did when Bruce was injured. He sank down into the chair that had been placed next to the bed, pulling it close enough that he could easily wrap his hands around one of Bruce’s. 

“I wish you would let me listen,” Clark said, quietly. “If you knew I wanted to, I know you wouldn't, so I don't. But if you would  _ just _ let me… maybe I could protect you better…”

He choked off, lowering his head and pressing it against the rail of the bed. He suppressed tears that were beginning to form, driving himself to focus once again on Bruce’s heartbeat.

_ Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. _

It seemed steady, so Clark remained tuned in. It calmed him down; had always reminded Clark that Bruce was a constant in his life; a necessary support. 

_ Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud thud thud thud… _

His heartbeat spiked suddenly, jerking Clark away from the rail of the bed, and forcing him to let go of Bruce’s hand. Except, he realized, he wasn’t the one to let go. 

Bruce’s eyes were wide open, his head tilted back and short, frantic gasps escaping his lips.

Clark had known from previous accidents that Bruce’s body recovered from general anaesthetic fairly quickly, but hadn’t anticipated it would be  _ so soon _ . The tube was still lodged firmly in his airway, his waking reflexes forcing him to choke in an effort to dislodge the flexible plastic.

Clark met Bruce’s panic-stricken gaze for half of a second, lunging for the call button dangling from the wall. Moments later, he was being pushed away from the bed and out of the room. He wanted to fight back, and found himself roaring Bruce’s name in an attempt to get the doctors to allow him to stay without having to use force, but it didn’t work. The door closed behind him, so he forced himself to let them do their job, pressing his back against the wall and sliding to a crouching position.

This time, he didn’t care if he said too much--if he became utterly delirious. He needed to vent; everything that had happened in the last few hours had built up, and he desperately needed to decompress. 

Sitting on the floor of the hallway, hands pressed against his face, Clark sobbed violently.

\-----

Six days passed before Bruce was allowed to leave the hospital.

His ventilator had been removed promptly once he woke up, but in his distress, he had severely bruised his trachea and had torn a stitch in his shoulder. By the time they let Clark back into the room, Bruce was laying flat on his back, sedated and staring straight at the ceiling.

Clark had gone in, took his hand in his again, squeezed gently, and whispered “I love you.” 

Bruce couldn’t say anything, but the sentiment was there when he squeezed back.

Eventually they fell asleep together, Clark rousing frequently during the night to check on his husband’s status. That’s how the rest of the week proceeded, though not to the nurses’ knowledge. Clark would leave at the end of visiting hours, then use his speed to sneak back in to stay with Bruce.

Wayne Manor’s extensive medical suite--or at least, that’s what Alfred called it when discussing with the nurses; meaning  _ The Batcave _ \--coupled with its live-in medical staff--Alfred--who were on call 24/7, were enough to convince the doctors to let Bruce go. He was still in fairly rough shape when Alfred pulled a large SUV up to the front doors, leaning heavily on Clark to get himself to the car.

“Get me out of here,” he grumbled angrily as Clark buckled the seatbelt around his injured shoulder, adjusting it so that it did not cross his wounds in any way. “I’m done with being in this fucking hospital.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed. “You were shot, and admittedly, you seemed closer to death than many occasions in which I have repaired you. Though inconvenient, your stay at Gotham General was a necessity.”

Bruce scowled and instinctively moved to cross his arms like an annoyed teenager, but winced and hissed with his own movements. Clark leaned forward immediately, reaching around to touch his arm from the back seat. Bruce sighed and glared  _ very briefly _ at Clark, who glared as fiercely as he could back. 

Clark opened his mouth, but Bruce interrupted.

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “You want me to let you help me.”

Clark raised a brow.

“No, you’re  _ going _ to let me help you. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Bruce sighed again, slouching slightly in his seat and glaring out the window.

“Jay and Tim are waiting at home,” Clark said, leaning back as well. “Dick and Dami will be coming home for dinner at eight, then they’ll come down to visit you.”

“You mean I’m not eating upstairs?”

Alfred piped up this time.

“Absolutely not, Master Bruce. You need to rest as much as possible.”

“So I guess that means no patrol,” Bruce shot back.

Clark’s heart skipped dramatically, a sinking feeling in his chest. His hands involuntarily trembled as he forced himself to take a few deep breaths. He tried to remain quiet, wanting to hide his anxiety from Bruce. The thought of his husband returning to patrol, returning to  _ danger _ was overpowering his thoughts and sending him into a panic.

He was treated to a sideways glance from Bruce, but nothing more was said or done.

“No, Master Bruce,” Alfred answered sternly. “If you thought there was even the slightest chance that myself and Master Clark would allow that...well…”

“Yeah, I’d be a fucking idiot,” Bruce sneered, sinking into the seat again with a loud sigh.

Clark breathed in deeply and pressed his cheek to the car window. He paused for a second, narrowing his focus to the noise that always kept him calm.

_ Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. _

Bruce’s heart had been strong the rest of the week, the incident with the ventilator causing a final spike that never returned once it had fizzled out. Clark had fallen asleep to his heartbeat every night that week, and figured that wouldn’t change whether they were home or not.

“...Master Clark?” Alfred was asking, clearly on a second or third attempt at getting Clark’s attention.

“Sorry, what?” He asked, snapping himself out of his thoughts. The tremble was still present in his hand, but it had calmed significantly. So, thankfully, had his own heartbeat.

“Will you be joining us in the dining room, or eating with Master Bruce in the “recovery suite?””

“I’ll eat with Bruce, if that’s okay,” Clark said, half looking at his husband. Bruce turned and flashed him the tiniest smile, which he returned.

“Very well, sir,” Alfred said. “I will bring it down for around seven thirty.”

Jason helped Clark get Bruce inside, while Alfred and Tim carried some of Bruce’s belongings down to the cave. There were a few side rooms below, but Alfred carefully selected the one nearest the medical bay for Bruce’s extended visit.

“I could just sleep in my bed,” Bruce snarked as Clark and Jason lowered him onto the cot. “It would be more comfortable than this.”

Jay laughed.

“This is still gonna be a hell of a lot more comfortable than the one at the hospital. Take what you can get, old man.”

Bruce rolled his eyes at his second eldest, then winced as he leaned back against the bed’s padding.

Clark’s hand was on the back of his good shoulder, trying to support his weight and take the pain from his hip away, at least slightly.

Bruce didn’t say thank you, but it was something Clark had come to expect. Bruce hated being hurt, mostly because he hated being cared for. Babied, as he so eloquently called it.

He also hated physical therapy, Clark came to learn.

For five days, Bruce was forced to remain in the cave. On the sixth, he became impatient and dragged himself up to the dining room for supper. On the seventh, both lunch and supper, and on the eighth, the day his stitches were removed, he insisted he be moved up to his and Clark’s room. 

Clark and Alfred protested at first, but Bruce bargained with them. In exchange, he agreed that he would start physical therapy with Clark. 

He did it, reluctantly, grumbling his way through every ‘session’ they had. Clark couldn’t complain too much though--he saw Bruce succeeding the more movements they did. Standing up and sitting down became less strenuous, he winced a lot less, and seemed generally closer to himself. 

A few sessions even ended with a fairly vigorous make-out session. He  _ definitely _ couldn’t complain about that.

\-----

Much to Bruce’s frustration, Clark continued with league business without him. 

As expected, Clark was forced to fully disclose what had happened the night that Batman had been shot, but everyone seemed more surprised that Brucie Wayne, billionaire playboy, was Batman, than they were that Superman and Batman were married.

“When you called him baby that night, I’ll admit that it caught me a little off guard, but once I thought about it… both of you wear similar wedding bands, you always have each other’s backs more than anyone else's, you’re always incredibly concerned when the other is injured, and to top it all off, you literally  _ fight like an old married couple _ .” Shayera had said when Clark confessed the truth.

“I had no doubt that you two were banging behind our backs,” Wally smirked. “I mean, it kinda freaked me out at first, but I got used to the idea, and now I think it’s kinda sweet.”

“I knew as well,” J’onn said. “Our telepathic link sometimes falters, and I am exposed to glimpses of your emotions. I was aware of your exceptionally deep care for each other, and connected the dots myself.”

John and Diana hadn’t said much, just kind of shrugged and agreed that it was kind of obvious.

“I was just shocked that Bats is Gotham’s prince by day,” Wally had added. “That was the real kicker of the evening. Oh, besides the fact that he got shot.”

Clark was actually fairly surprised how well Bruce himself took the news that Clark had revealed his identity.

“Better you strip me there than in front of everyone at the hospital.”

That had been all, and Clark hadn’t pressed the matter. Dick did get an earful from Bruce, however, when he heard that his eldest had given Clark grief for failing to stop the bullets. 

That had been a very tense meal, for sure.

\-----

Six weeks passed before Bruce was ready to take to the mat, Clark insisting that he was the only one who could spar with him as he recovered. 

“I’ve had to control my powers for so long, I am confident that I will stay focused on taking it fairly easy on you.”

“I don’t want you to go easy on me, Clark,” Bruce had growled, circling him with his fists raised. He was shirtless, thick, red, raised scars adorned his shoulder, hip, and the centre of his chest, where the incisions had been made. At the approximate centre of each scar was a slight divot in Bruce’s skin, a result of the bullets themselves. Vein-like scars were traceable around each hole as well, a result of smaller splits in the skin as the bullet entered. 

The sight of them made Clark feel a little ill, and each time they sparred, he forced himself to focus on the steady  _ thud thud, thud thud,  _ of his recovering husband’s heartbeat.

It helped him cope with the scars, but it did not help with the intense  _ dread _ he felt at the thought of Bruce in the field again.

He successfully hid this particular anxiety from Bruce for over two weeks of sparring, until one day, Bruce managed to  _ take Clark down _ . As he laid on the ground, Bruce cheering at his own victory above him, a vividly familiar tightness washed over Clark’s chest, and he began to hyperventilate. He tried first to focus on Bruce’s heart, but it was beating too quickly, adrenaline from their match fueling its pace. He couldn’t slow his own breathing down to fall in its rhythm as he usually did, so he laid on the ground for several minutes.

Bruce didn’t notice at first, too busy flaunting his success to Dick, who flawlessly dismounted from the uneven bars just to tell Bruce how happy he was for him.

Clark eventually brought himself to his feet, slowly and unsteadily, stumbling his way over to the wall. He pressed his hand against the cold rock first, bracing himself and trying to breathe deeply. He felt tears threatening to spill from behind his eyes and closed them tightly, pressing his forehead against the wall and suppressing a sob.

He heard Bruce’s footsteps return about ten minutes after they had left, and mentally cursed himself. He had given it away now, and he felt like shit.

“I should be happy for you, too,” Clark said, his voice quiet and uneven. Full of fear. “I should be glad you’re recovering as quickly as you are, but I’m not.”

Bruce’s stride did not falter. He approached Clark directly, standing behind him with his arms loose at his sides. Clark heard him sigh.

“I should have known you were feeling like this,” he said, solemnly. “I didn’t want to push you or  _ encourage _ you if you weren’t, but it would be out of character if you weren’t anxious about me returning to the field.”

Clark sniffled and turned slowly, meeting Bruce’s gaze. His eyes were softer than Clark had expected, no hint of anger or frustration in them whatsoever. 

“You’re training me again, Clark,” he said, stepping forward. “I trust you to make sure that I’m ready, and I know that you won’t okay my patrols until  _ I am _ .”

“I’m not worried that you won’t be able to handle patrol, B,” Clark said. “I’m worried that  _ I  _ won’t be able to handle you being out on patrol. Every time your heartbeat spikes, I’m scared I’m going to lose my shit.”

Bruce paused for a second.

“You listen to my heartbeat?”

Clark blushed, rubbing his left elbow with his right hand. His whole body felt shaky.

“I haven’t always, but for the last few weeks, yes,” he admitted. “It’s sort of...a comfort for me. I can’t really explain it. It’s almost like a grounding technique, if I’m angry or worried or overwhelmed, I’ve learned to time my breathing with your heartbeat. It’s always so steady...so reliable.”

Bruce frowned.

“I would never do it in battle though,” Clark continued. “I know you wouldn’t want me to, it’d be a distraction. Plus, I knew it was probably already enough of a breach in your privacy that I shouldn’t push it.”

“That’s why you didn’t get to the bullets.”

Clark choked.

“That’s why I didn’t get to the bullets.”

Bruce frowned again for a second, then his facial features softened.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad that you weren’t listening, but only because I know you got the rest of those civilians out  _ because _ you didn’t come to my rescue immediately.”

Clark swallowed thickly.

“How can I do this, Bruce? I’m afraid that if I can’t listen to your heart, I’ll be keeping too much of an eye on you now. I don’t want you to get hurt again. I can’t handle it. I need you.”

Clark held up his left hand, absentmindedly playing with the ring on his finger.

“We have to go out again sometime, though, Clark,” Bruce said, stepping forward once more and pressing a hand gently to the side of Superman’s face. “I know it’s hard on you, but I can’t stop being Batman and being in the league because you’re worried I’ll get hurt.”

“I know,” Clark said, laying his hand overtop of Bruce’s. He closed his eyes, a few extra tears rolling down his cheek. “Just...just promise me, that you will be more careful.”

“Listen to me,” Bruce said, looking into Clark’s eyes. Clark opened them and met his gaze, expecting him to finish the sentence.

But he didn’t.

“What?” Clark said. Bruce smiled gently. 

“Not now, Clark,” he said. “Listen to me. In the field. I had no idea how much of a comfort that was to you...to deny you that…”

Clark choked softly with relief and nuzzled his face more firmly into Bruce’s hand, even more tears spilling over.

“But you have to promise me, Clark, that if I get hurt and you can’t get to me  _ without putting someone else at risk _ , that you will Stay. Put.”

“I will, B, I swear,” Clark said. “I promise I will. I’ll put you last on the list of priorities, then race through the rest just to get to you.”

“Good,” Bruce said, chuckling softly, pulling his hand away and walking back out into the centre of the mat. “Now get over here, so I can kick your ass again.”

Clark laughed through the few remaining tears that fell from his eyes, wiping his cheeks and taking his position across from his husband. 

“Okay,  _ Batman _ ,” he said, jokingly. “Give me all you’ve got.”

Bruce fiddled with the ring on his finger, smiling softly and gazing fondly into Clark’s eyes.

“I already have.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by!  
> I hope you enjoyed! As always, comments and kudos are so greatly appreciated.  
> \- Laynee


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